


Minister's Boy

by Anonymous



Series: Undesirables [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Chan, Come Swallowing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Like Don't Read, Extremely Underage, Grooming, Human Trafficking, M/M, Oral Sex, Pedophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Training
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In the year 1993, Tom Marvolo Riddle became the Minister of Magic.In the year 1985, he obtained a certain detail that would help him get to that position.





	1. Drink

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags, you have been warned.  
> Get out while you can if you don't like it.  
> I do not expect flamers because you have been warned. And it would be quite selfish if you read it through and still decided to flame despite being warned multiple times.
> 
> I do not condone any of the subjects that have been written in this fic. Paedophilia, human trafficking, or sexual slavery and the like. I wrote this because I wanted to explore these subjects. 
> 
> Unbetaed

“You are to drink this twice daily,” A dull thunk sounded as glass was placed on the table, “Once in the morning, during breakfast meal, and another before bed."

The dirty child shivered in his dining chair, its feet hovering a foot over dark wood. Blending in entirely, dressed in rags and a body dyed in dirt and soot, to his dining room, walls and floor a theme of twilight forest. Yet he could still see it perfectly, legs twitching in nervousness, a testament to the falseness of its bravado. The skinny thing it was, nodded, never once looking up at him. Its eyes only focused on its own reflection on his table of dark mahogany.

“You are to address me as either ‘Sir’ or ‘Master’.” He paused, letting his words sink in. It would not do for it to forget its station. “Is it understood?”

It nodded once more, and he felt a twitch on his face at the disrespect.

His hand snapped out, gripping hard on the child’s face, and jerked upwards, forcing it to look at him. Innocent green eyes widened in fear and glistened in pain; a reenactment of their meeting, the very reason why it attracted him. “You are to look at me whenever I address you.” He ground out, his already infinitesimal patience wearing thin. “Is. That. Understood?” 

The head in his hand began to dip, but before it could finish, it cried out, tears welling in green. His hold on the child’s chin tightened to a crushing grip, surely bruising it. “Speak. Whenever I address you, speak. I know you are not mute; if you were they would have told me in the first place.”

It flinched at the reminder. It opened its mouth, closed it, and repeated the actions not once, but twice. He ground his thumb against the child’s bone, his face surely darkening at the lack of response. Even his control can only do so much when annoyance was already present. He heard an audible swallow and tracked the child’s pink tongue nervously running across lips. 

“I--” Another swallow, another lick, “I understand... Sir.”

“Good,” He straightened, smoothing invisible creases from his robes whilst looming over the tiny child in his chair, “Drink.”

It quickly complied, tiny hands tilting the glass. He watched, detached, as it drank the contents, white fluid slowly disappearing with each timid swallow. He saw its brows scrunch at the flavor and its wet, overflown eyes darting around, tears slowly rolling down. He knew that it wanted to set down the glass, to stop drinking, but it would not. Not with him here. It was too scared to do so, for fear of angering its new master.

Once cleared, it placed down the glass with shaking hands. It wiped its face with its dirty sleeve before facing him. “I—I fi-finished, Sir.”

He stared at it a moment longer, watching as it began to squirm. Suddenly, he turned around, heading towards the doors. “Come,” He commanded, not even waiting for the child. A child he was beginning to regret paying for, only because of how trying it was to his patience. And when he heard the loud screeching of his dining chair on hardwood flooring and the loud slapping of bare feet, he closed his eyes and breathed in, fingers twitching as he walked. 

Oh, how he regretted.


	2. 1945.i

Tom knocked on the wooden door and waited. He could hear shifting and muffled squelching noises behind the closed door.

“Come in!”

Plastering on his most winning and charming smile, he entered the room. He found himself standing before eight men, all sitting around a round table. The wet, slurping noises were much louder. 

“Ah, Tom! You’re here, good, good.” Slughorn cried out, sounding breathless, “Come in, come on in! Let me introduce you to some of my friends. They—ah—they’ll help you in— _ah_ —the future. 

“While you’re at it Tom, do—ah—do close the door would you? Pr-private—ah!--conversation this is.”

“Professor, are you alright?” He asked, walking towards his professor with unnoticable wary steps. He noticed that all the other men in the table were amused, smirking to one another, while giving him a sly eye here and there. It was disconcerting.

“P-plenty a fine, dear boy, plenty a fi--” Slughorn was cut off by a sharp gasp, his hands shooting down to his lap, and upper body keeled over wood. Tom immediately rushed over, trying to see if his professor was alright. He had to of course as was expected of Hogwarts most prodigious student and Head Boy.

“Professor! Prof--...essor?” He uncharacteristically stuttered, shocked at the sight he saw.

Slughorn leaned back, much relaxed then before—his face sweaty and dopey-looking, as if he took one of those muggle drugs. He grinned up at Tom, hand directing to his splayed lap. “See, nothing’s wrong.” Between his professor’s legs was a small head of blonde hair, bobbing up and down. 

“Hah, Horace! You didn’t last again, the first to come out of all of us!” One of the men crowed, shocking Tom out of his stupor, face blank. He took the advantage to look underneath the table, and indeed, there were seven other kneeling bodies, some naked while others scantily clad. All their heads buried in seated laps.

“Haha, well, she’s just that good. Would you want to try her?” His professor offered, embarrassed at how fast he came. 

The others laughed, and one of the men countered with a “mine’s good enough for me”. Tom was stupefied. What was this? 

“Horace, you should help that boy of yours! He looks just like my son did when he first found out.”

“Ah, you’re right, yes you are, Argyle.” Slughorn turned back to face him, “How are you Tom? I’m very glad you could make it to this meeting of ours.”

“Professor, Sir, what… what is going on?” Tom asked, confused and repulsed though his mask remained blank.

“Ah? This? Well, you see, Tom, this is what I wanted to introduce you to today. Say hello, June.” Slughorn reached between his legs to grasp a handful of blonde hair. He pulled, and the head followed, letting go of the professor’s slick cock with a loud, wet pop. Dull, lifeless gray eyes looked up at him and a shy hand waved at him before the head was pushed down again. Once more joining the rest of the surrounding noises, the sound of slurps and sucking of cock. Tom was repulsed at how young the girl was, maybe a year or two younger than the first-years. Disgusting. 

“June’s been with me for three years now, sweet child that she is.” Slughorn said all the while holding the girl’s head down, making the girl gag and choke. “She’s been trained too!” He laughed, “Oh, I remember the days when she tried to bite me, but obviously she knows better now… Don’t you, sweetheart?” A wet muffled agreement could be heard.

“Anyway, enough of my girl, we’re here for you, Tom.”

“Me, Professor?” Tom asked slightly baffled, but inwardly on-guard. If they were going to force him to suck them off, then they would all find themselves castrated. Future connections be damned.

“Yes, Tom, you. I know you want to head into the Ministry once you graduate, I thought it would be advantageous for you to meet my Ministry friends. They have tips that could... help you, and _this_ is one of them.

“I understand that you want to be in the Dark Society, and this is a must, Tom. _This_ is one of the things you need to have in order to succeed. Ask any of the men here! They all come from Dark families, they can tell you, if you don’t believe me. You can also ask your friends, well the heirs. Never the spares! Unless, they are heading to the Ministry with a promising future.” 

Tom’s eyes narrowed minutely, so his followers were in on this as well? How despicable.

“Sir, where do you... acquire them from?”

“June here,” Slughorn patted her bobbing head, and she moaned, “I bought. My first one, my father bought for me, as is tradition. Though I have also heard of some being taken off the streets…”

“Do the parents not worry, sir? Their children sold for your pleasure.” Not that Tom cared, he did not believe in familial love and all that nonsense. After all, he was an orphan, abandoned by a weak witch and a filthy muggle.

“And _that_ is why we use squibs and muggles. And the occasional--” A low groan was emitted from beside his professor. “--muggleborns. Though those are rare, because finding and acquiring them is quite--” Another moan, this time across. “--hard. They have accidental magic and all that. 

“We never use half-bloods, _never_. They have a parent that could--” Harsh panting could be heard from another man. “--track their child down, never want that to happen. We could be exposed, and that wouldn’t be good, the goody-Light would take advantage of it. So we always use the kids from the muggle world, always.”

And using pureblood children were not even a thought, how… pureblood-like. Tom clenched his fist when the man right beside him released a low groan. Seconds later, loud spurting and swallowing could be heard. Tom released his fist, only to clench it again when another across the room did the same.

Disgusting. Vile. Despicable. 

But outwardly, he gave all the men an understanding smile and a nod.


	3. Wand

Two weeks had passed since he bought that child, and he had watched each time the child drank its dosage, ensuring that none was spit out. Its face no longer scrunched as much when it drank though sometimes it had to force itself to swallow. After all, he did punish if even a single drop was wasted. 

It had learned so when it failed to catch the last drop from the glass. He had ordered the child to strip itself of its bottoms, underwear and all, and lie itself on his knees. He then proceeded to spank the child, forcing it to count each slap. His slaps had jarred it so hard that it vomited all that it had just drank—white liquid soaking on his green carpet. 

Wide eyed, the child began to shake, apologizing profusely. Its tears streaming down more than it had before; it shivered when his hand deceptively glided over its tiny bum. He made no sound—no raised voice, no cold words—only raising his palm once more to strike. This time more harsh and double-fold the amount. 

In the end, the child had screamed itself hoarse—its black hair matted to his face with snot and tears and sweat—and on the verge of passing out. He banished the mess on his carpet and _Rennervate_ -ed the child. He still had it drink another glass that he conjured from his storage before he sent the child to bed.

It was a good thing that the child never asked what it was. Though it would figure it out one day. 

Possibly sooner rather than later.

Nevertheless, it was time for the next part of its training.

He sighed, disgruntled that he had to stop his future plans, all for a single child. Not that his followers had been forthcoming with information this past month. It was as if fate had cleared his schedule for him, only so he could… _interact_ with the child. He scoffed at the thought, yet he still mentally fortified himself to… _interact_... with it.

He opened the door to his modest library, and spotted it, hiding behind a barricade of thick tomes. Books too heavy and possibly too complex for its simple mind to understand. Apparently his child was literate and liked to read as well. No matter, at least it would be intelligent.

He quietly stood behind it, looking over its shoulder at the book it was perusing. _The Life and Conquest of Cyrus the Great._ What an interesting choice the child chose, but it would only be a foolish fantasy if it ever thought he would act like the 5th King of Persia. Harsh, yes. Benevolent, only on good behavior. But merciful?

Never.

The child shivered when it sensed it was not alone. It whipped around, only to jump at seeing how close he was. In response, he only lifted an eyebrow, amused. It seemed that the child still held some fear towards him from the last punishment.

“M-Master?” It stuttered. Should it be annoying or endearing that it stutters at him so? Not now, he mentally chided himself, he will think upon it later.

“Follow me.” And as always, he left, not caring if it could catch up or not. 

With his long strides, he arrived at his private study in short time. He stopped in front of the door, and not long after, a small body crashed into his legs. He side-glanced the body on the floor, and raised an imperious eyebrow at the lightly cursing child. 

It was rubbing its forehead, the part that rammed in full force into the back of his thighs. He thought he could see tears forming in its downcast eyes, hiding behind unruly black hair. When it was still preoccupied with itself, he cleared his throat softly. He never raised his voice; after all, soft voices hide more than emotional outbursts. 

He entered his own study, uncaring of the child scrambling behind him, heading to a dark green loveseat. He sat down and faced his reflection. A large floor-length mirror was situated directly in front for today’s… _interaction_. 

When the child finally stopped gaping at his study, he pointed at the space in front of him. “Come here,” He ordered, watching as the child almost tripped trying to comply with his demand. It stood stock still, awaiting further orders. “Strip.” And it began to tremble, the last punishment still vivid in mind. After it folded its bottoms and placed it aside, it began to fiddle with the hem of its shirt. “All.” 

Its head shot up in disbelief, but at the look it received, it did not dare complain and looked back down. Instead it raised shaking fingers to shirt buttons and began revealing pale, smooth skin. It bent down to take off its shoes and socks as well, stuffing the latter into the former, before placing them beside its folded clothes.

He raked his eyes at the blushing form, taking in all the imperfections. A beauty mark or two on a collarbone and a birthmark on its flank. He also noticed a long silvery scar, from inner elbow to forearm, curious. 

Its hands were at its side, slowly drifting towards   
He frowned when it began to fidget too much for his liking, and reached into his pocket to retrieve a small item.

“Come forward,” It did, and he raised the item in his hand for it to see, “You will wear this for now.”

“U-um, S-sir, w-what is it?” It asked, uncertain about the dangling object in his fingers.

“You have never seen this before?” He asked in disbelief, genuinely surprised, and when it spoke an affirmation right after catching itself from nodding, he gave out an irritated sigh. “This here, in my hand, is a modified horse bit. Usually made of brass, but for you, I had it made with thick leather.”

“W-why do I need it, Sir?”

“On a horse, it is paired with the reins to control and direct a horse. On you, however, it will be used so you will not and do not bite your tongue.”

“B-bite! Why would I bite my tongue?!” A stinging hex was sent its way and it yelped. “...Sir.”

“Turn around.” He reached both hands out, never once looking away from the mirror. He raised the bit to the child’s face, “Open”; it reluctantly obeyed and he placed the thick, black leather atop its tongue. “Close,” he commanded, and it did, mouth slightly distended by the unfamiliar gag. Using magic, he kept the bit in place, before grabbing a thinner leather strap and threading it into one of the silver rings, rounding it behind the child’s head and doing the same to the other ring. He made sure it was tight before he released its head.

“Can you speak?” He wondered aloud.

“Ye-yesh, shir,” It struggled through the thick bit.

“Good.” He patted his lap, and the child fearfully obeyed. It squeaked in surprise when he grabbed its hips and pulled its arse up. “Look in the mirror.” He commanded. He waited for it to turn its head towards the aforementioned glass before continuing. Once he saw a blushing face in the mirror, he spread the child’s cheeks, exposing its hole.

Another squeak. “Do not look away,” and he proceeded to circle its hole with his finger, ignoring the gasps and protests from the body beneath his touch. “This, is your anus, the hole that humans defecate from. It contains two muscles that are in charge of the processes: the internal and external anal sphincter.” He pressed upon the shut opening, the hole barely giving way, “Your external anal sphincter is the one that seals the orifice close until further use. It can, however, be loosened by stimulation, which is what we are about to do.”

He removed his finger, dismissively glancing at the furiously blushing face that stared directly at the mirror, in favor of reaching for his wand. Wand drawn, he placed the tip of the yew to the child’s hole. With a wordless _scourfigy_ , he cleaned the child’s innards. It squeaked in surprise at the sudden breeze of air inside, and startled a shout when he forced the tip of his wand into it. 

“Now, the tip of my wand is currently inside your rectum. One of the five sections of the human colon: ascending, transverse, descending, sigmoid, and the rectum. In that order.” With each name, he slowly pulled and pushed his wand tip in a few centimeters. ”Today, we are going to be focusing on your rectum.” He muttered a lubrication spell before continuing, still ignoring the dry pants and the recent shriek the child made. “The rectum, in the average adult is 12 centimeters in length, and a child’s is around 7 centimeters.” He slid his wand in deeper before pulling back, repeating the motions.

He continued speaking, unaffected as the child began to unconsciously hump on his lap, seeking friction. Once more he looked at its face through the mirror, and watched with clinical interest at the moment his angled wand hit its prostate. Its clenched eyes flew open in surprise; its mouth wide, saliva overflowing due to the bit and sudden pleasure.

“We seem to have found your prostate,” He stated, all the while pressing his wand at the gland, making the child _scream_. He pulled back and so did the screams, but then he pushed again, eliciting another round of pleasured cries. Nonplussed, he continued, both words and hand, “The prostate is a gland that secretes 30% of your semen, a fluid that consists of sperm and others. It is located beneath the male bladder and beside the rectal walls; it is also approximately the size of a walnut in the adult male.” He ignored the child’s incoherent babblings of “Sir” and “Master”, deftly attacking its prostate with his wand until it screamed out “som-something’s c-coming!”, in which he ground and grinded the wand tip at the sensitive gland.

He released the over-sensitive prostate when its body finally stopped convulsing, and tense muscles relaxed, too young to properly ejaculate. Slowly, he pulled his wand out, only meeting a few hindrance when the body refused to release it with weak clenches. Once his wand was free, the body below whimpered, but stilled in exhaustion. 

Whispering a _scourfigy_ on his wand, he put it aside on the couch beside him. Choosing to run his hand over the quivering body, and again, spread the cheeks. His finger then trailed along the crack to the child’s gaping and fluttering hole. He prodded it, watching as his finger was sucked in by the muscle.

“And that, is how the external anal sphincter can be loosened.”


	4. 1945.ii

The moment he arrived at his private room, Tom headed for his shower.

He did not even bother stripping himself of his clothes, instead turning the shower on at the highest temperatures his skin would allow. He considered burning his uniform all together, but he could not. He was still an orphan; no longer penniless, but not enough that he could afford to waste spendings.

He needed the heat. To ground himself to reality, to remind him of pain, to burn off the _filth_. 

Despicable. Disgusting. _Vile _.__

__HIs hand immediately flew to his mouth, and he crouched down, leaning heavily on the shower tiles as he did so. Tom dry-heaved into his fist, refusing to show weakness even when alone. He remained there after his spell of dry-heaves, dazedly watching streams of hot water running down his nose._ _

__DId Dippett know? About the acts being done inside Hogwarts, his _home_ , defiling the pure sentient being? But the way Slughorn said it, about _it_ being a _tradition_ of the _Dark_. _ _

__Tom’s eyes widened as a realization made itself known, and once again, his body attempted to retch.__

____

____

__A tradition that has been happening since the founding of Hogwarts. Adults in power-- _professors_ of Hogwarts have done this. And Slughorn was one of them. Targeting muggles and squibs alike, and the occasional mudblood._ _

__Tom snarled, his fist impacted the tile wall harshly, fury fueling him. To think--to think, it could have been _him_. _Him_ in place of those… those… those children! His fist slammed the wall again, he distantly noted that something splintered and cracked. If it had not been for his accidental magic, he may have been like… _that_ \-- _ _

__A _pathetic, soulless, cock-sucking, dependent_ \--! _ _

__He trailed off with an infuriated growl and another smack. Each word he punctuated with a fist, breaking and wounding himself even more, but it was effective in taking his anger away. He took in deep breaths, trying to calm himself._ _

__Within minutes, he was back to his normal impeccable control. Then he noticed the large, fresh blood stain on the wall, lazily being washed away by the water travelling down his outstretched arm. He looked down at his ruined fist, staring distractedly as he muttered a healing spell._ _

He witnessed his mortality, the ruined flesh and blood. 

And he witnessed magic. The way his bone shards melded back together as individual single solids rather than millions of tiny, gray-white shards; the way the white-pink tendons and ligaments strapped themselves to the newly resurrected bones; the way orange-red muscles weaved themselves to become a near impenetrable shield of fiber and flesh; the way a layer of dark-yellow fat coiled itself around the orange, then immediately draped by delaying layers of skin, only made possible by the thickness of each dermis. 

Tom raised his now healed hand to the ceiling light, blood veins showing through pale skin. The Light was so close yet also too far away. He was too deep inside, he could not escape; the Darkness had consumed him. He had no choice but to continue on a path that could have once possibly killed him so. 

__Decision made, Tom made quick work of his sodden clothes, letting them fall to the tile floor with a soggy, wet ‘slap’. He will let the house elves take care of it, he had some pureblood heirs to catch._ _


	5. Mercy

Ever since his _interaction_ with the child, they did it daily. Always in his study, always in front of the mirror. The child had gotten to the point that it had begun to... anticipate his ‘lessons’. 

He scowled at the thought.

He slammed open the doors to the child’s bedroom. An opulent room in dark wood and Prussian blue, highlighted by silver, worthy for a prince. The child was on the bed, surrounded by books as always. It jumped when the doors bounced off the walls, teetering dangerously on the bed edge for a few moments before dragging the duvet down when he fell. The sound of heavy books tumbling to the floor made him wince--internally of course. 

He walked over to the mess beside the bedside, looming over the rocking form, head held tightly between arms and hand furiously rubbing its cranium. He cleared his throat when the child did not acknowledge him, tapping his foot in emphasis to his impatience. 

The child's head shot up, embarrassed and sheepish, before a blush and glee replaced them.

“Master! Is it--is it time now?” The red darkened, and it ducked its head, only to look at him beneath full lashes.

“It is.”

It hastily got up, the movement shifting the volumes beside it. He turned around and left. He heard how the child nearly tripped on a far flung book before emerging with a cherry tune. Within moments the child had caught up to him, and he subtly turned his head in curiosity.

It was _skipping_. Swinging its hands with a bright _smile_ on its face.

Why, in Merlin’s name, was the child _smiling_? He rounded to the back of his desk, pulling open the bottom drawer and reaching in. He wanted that smile to disappear, it should not even be smiling at all. Especially not humming a cheery tune as it stripped.

He twirled the toy in his hand, as if it was his wand. The surfaces of the metal spheres gliding over his palm with each turn, stealing his warmth. A small smirk emerged on his lips. This would be enough for punishment.

When he turned around, the child was already on the sofa, arse up and bare. He walked to it, free hand smoothing over round cheeks, making it shiver. He stilled his hand at the dip of its spine, before reversing the motion, stopping at the top of its thighs. He looked down at the toy in his hand before the other squeezed its thigh lightly, patting it as a distracted apology. 

Oh, it would definitely be enough punishment.

He sat behind the child’s kneeling form, flicking his eyes to the mirror to confirm that it was looking at him. Then he did their preparation ritual: spreading cheeks to access a tight--

“Have you done something that I should know?”

The child buried its face into the cushion, a muffled sound was his only response. He squeezed both cheeks, hard, in retaliation. It yelped before crying for mercy, begging him to stop. He pinched it for a moment, then releasing it, a warning.

It lifted its face from the cushion, red from embarrassment and tears painted its face. Its head twisted, trying to look over shoulders, but he clamped his hand on its nape, pushing it back down. “I--M-master, I,” It stammered, averting his gaze, “I did do something… Sir.”

He hummed a knowing sound, squeezing a cheek when the child’s volume dipped.

“I, um I,” It took in a great heave before: “IusedmyownfingersandtouchedmyselfthereSir.”

“Pardon? Speak clearly, I could not hear.”

“I--I used my own fingers, and t-touched myself there, Sir.”

“I can tell,” He could. He could see the slight puffiness from friction, the slight gaping of the hole. A perfect opportunity to be rid of that smile. “You will be punished, that is for certain. Tell me, why did you do it?”

At the word ‘punishment’, it whimpered, afraid--as it should be. He dragged its arse onto his lap; his fingers teasing along its crack before muttering a cleaning spell. 

When the child failed to utter even a single word, he applied a thin layer of lubricant on the metal toy in his hand. Then he pressed the tip of the first sphere into its hole, breaching it. He pushed it in, sphere by sphere, until at last the largest had passed through its ring. The child had sobbed throughout the whole process, unused to the size. He had deliberately chosen a toy larger than what it had practiced with before, a size he had scheduled to use a week from today. The thin layer of lubricant not helping the pain it was suffering through. 

He let the toy rest, snuggled inside the child’s hole, and he waited. Soon enough, it gasped out, “M-master! I just...I wanted t-to know if it felt as good–-AH!” Its body clenched, hole flexing around the intrusion, gasping as he twisted it, the metal dragging thin intestinal skin.

"Could you repeat that?" He pushed the toy up at an angle, eliciting a pleasured scream.

"I-I wanted..." It panted, breath labored from the sudden onslaught of spots filling its vision. A heave of breathe, "To, to know if it f-felt as good."

"And did it?" He leaned down, his mouth to an ear, tickling it with his breath. It squirmed, trying to get away, but his forearm on its back hindered its attempt. "Did it feel good?" He pumped the toy in and out of the tight hole, feeling a resistance every time he pulled back.

"N-no!" It screamed. Its body writhed around, though its hips now tried to push back, meeting the thrusts of the toy.

"And do you know why?"

"No--ah!" It buried its head into the cushion, muffling any oncoming noises, when a particular thrust hit its prostate directly. He took that as a sign to continue even harder, the squelching sound of the action becoming more rapid in succession. It wasn't long before the child's body stilled, hole squeezing the toy impossibly tight making it impossible for him to continue his onslaught. Its body seized, strained muscles shaking, before it flopped unceremoniously onto his lap. He removed his forearm, allowing it to twist itself in a more comfortable position.

He leaned back onto the couch, resting and looked down at the mess in front of him. He lifted his hand from the toy's handle, the beads still inside, and laid it on top of a quivering backside. It flinched at the contact before pressing up into his palm. He smoothed his hand up and down, soothing, until the body calmed and its breath evened. When the child began to sleepily nuzzle into his pant legs, he leaned down once more and whispered, "Do you. Know. Why?"

He was close enough to hear it intake a sharp breath before releasing it shakily. "No, I--I do not...know, Sir."

He hummed in response, and patted lightly on its bared cheeks. His finger tapped on it once, again, and another, prior to dipping his finger down its crevice, lightly brushing the muscle stretched around the handle. It shivered at the light touches, sharp intakes of breath whenever his finger lingered. "Is that so?" He murmured, "You really do not know?"

"No, I--dont?!"

With a flick of his magic, the toy elongated inside the child, and he pulled back the handle. The child shrieked as the largest bead, easily the size of his fist and stretching its ring of muscle, was pulled out and it tended before deflating when it popped out.

He relocated his hand to grasp the freed bead and pulled, the iron string reeling the next bead out until that one too popped out with some difficulty. He repeated the action for the next bead and the one after that, but he stopped when the size of the bead was less than a curled finger.

He tugged on the steel string for a moment, watching the ring flutter, before pushing the beads back in. The child writhed and whined, its shoulders bunching together as the metal beads found its way home again, all the way until the handle was the only thing that stuck out of its arse.

“Do you still not know why?” He asked into the sobbing child's ear.

“No,” it hiccuped, “ Mercy, please, Master. Mercy.” 

He was struck dumb. “Mercy? Where did you hear that word from?” Was it from one of the books it read? He never talked to it nor did he let the house elves talked to it. So how had it come upon this word? 

The word stirred mixed feelings inside of him. The way the word was spoken sounded mechanical and foreign on its tongue, as if it recited it from a script that it did not understand. How _dare_ this child--who had come _willingly_ and _expectant_ beg for _mercy_ \--something it might not even know. Incensed at the thoughts brewing in his head, he snarled, “Do you even know what the word _means_?” 

The child wailed and shook its head as his anger spurred him on. Ruthlessly, he pushed the toy in and out of the small body, all the while it cried out that damned word, a mantra. And when the sounds from the child were more pained and the sobs more teary due to the dry pull of metal on skin, he added more lubricant, instantly easing the path of the toy drilling into its hole, the thin layer from the beginning having evaporated due to the relentless friction he created.

“If you don't know what a word means--don't use it!” He yanked out the beads, uncaring of the shocked scream, and plunged a conjured dildo into its gaping hole. He pulled the child's arse higher, creating a lordosis with its body and the angle more punishing. 

“ _Mercy_ ,” he growled, his voice reverberating around the room, “is an act of _pity_. When someone sees your weakness and takes advantage of it! They use your weakness until you _beg_ them--beg them and beg them and beg them! For it to _stop_.” He emphasized his words with a twist and grind of the dildo to the child's over-sensitive prostate. 

“And even then, they might _not_. Because _they_ are cruel, immoral, disgusting _filth!_ ” 

With a roar, he ripped out the dildo, and in his anger, it flew out of his grasp. Distantly, he was aware of the sound of shattered glass, but his senses were muted, a buzzing fog of static blanketing him.

Slowly, he leaned back into the loveseat, his breath heaving. He wiped a hand across his face and through his wet hair, surveying the damage he had done.

His office was in disarray. Books and stacks of paper where strewn about, and the mirror was cracked, unsalvageable. Unfixable because wild magic was what had broken it in the first place. The anal beads laid haphazardly on the floor, the metal surface gleaming with lubricant, abandoned. And when he looked towards his desk, he saw one of his glass ornaments lay shattered, the pieces everywhere. At least that was repairable, he absently noted. Nestled inside the nest of shards was a dildo with the width of the second largest anal sphere and a length of his palm.

Hesitantly, he looked down at his lap. 

The child had passed out, tears dotting its lashes, stubbornly clinging to them. He placed a hand on its hip, pushing it to its side instead of its front. He noticed how it shivered at his touch, whether from the chill of the room or from a subconscious fear of him. 

He had caused unnecessary and undue pain today, and ran his hand over the child's backside. It's furrowed brows relaxed under the soothing waves of the mild healing charm he applied, one that healed physical injuries but not the lingering sensation of them. 

It would not do if it forgot the lesson it learned. Or else he would have to dole out… _another_ punishment again. 

He was brought out of his thoughts when the body in his lap snuggled closer to him. And with it brought pressure and attention on his unbidden erection.


	6. 1945.iii

“My Lord?” A timid knock sounded on the wooden door, “You wanted to see us?”

Tom slowly opened his eyes and opened the door with a wave of his hand. Malfoy and Black walked into the room, hesitant in a way only purebloods could be. The moment they crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut with a bang, the sound of a lock sliding into place loud within the silent room. All the pureblood heirs jumped at that, their postures rigid in their chairs.

“Please, have a seat,” Tom demanded to the standing purebloods, pointing towards the armchairs. He had transfigured their normal seating arrangements, the long wooden table replaced with empty space and the dining chairs into cloth and cushion. Their normal arrangement reminded him too much of _that_ scene. The wooden table tall enough to be capable of hiding small children underneath.

He tracked the purebloods as they meandered to the remaining empty seats, uncomfortable with how open the setting was. Tom sat there in silence, stewing over his thoughts.

Minutes ticked by and heirs like Avery and Lestrange began to squirm. Their knees began to bounce, their legs spreading obscenely wide, and their backs sinking into the upholstery. He could see it now, he could see where they got these mannerisms from. Tom did not even have to imagine it, he could practically _see_ it happening, an overlay of images on his followers—they too would be like them.

Be like their own fathers, the ones that would willingly and enjoy murdering a child’s innocence.

Tom had never been more grateful in his life, the first ever to be exact, that he grew up fatherless and in an orphanage. Grateful that he had disposed of his paternal family and his father not too long ago. Tom knew that despite the separation between magical and muggle-kind, many things are commonplace between them. No one side is a utopia nor is the other a dystopia, murder and thievery is commonplace, and a shunned society always exists, so why would something like this not exist too?

Thinking back, perhaps something had existed in the orphanage as well. A place where unwanted children go, overcrowded and impoverished, desperate for any little affection, scraps of food, or spare change. There were plenty of people out in the world who were disgusting enough to “give” the orphans “kindness” in exchange for _favors_.

Closing his eyes, Tom wanted to groan. Despite how intellectual he is, the top of his class and the highest grades Hogwarts has ever seen, Tom was ignorant and naive as well. How could he have not seen these disgusting rituals before? The hints were everywhere now that he was so blatantly exposed to it, the wool brutally torn from his eyes.

A noise to his left broke through his concentration, and Tom’s eyes flew open to glare at the fool who did so. Goyle was halfway out of his seat, shocked frozen into a position that would have been laughable if the situation was not so dire. 

“Sit back down, Goyle,” Tom growled, displeased that one of his knights would decide to go against his orders. “Or would you like to stand for the entire duration of the meeting?” 

Goyle’s mouth flapped open, face pink as he was confronted. He spluttered for a moment but before a coherent word could be spoken, Tom cut him off. “Save it, I don’t want to hear your excuses—or any upcoming ones for that matter.” With a flick of his wand, Tom vanished Goyle’s armchair. 

With the loss of chair to support him, Goyle fell onto his backside, painful by the sound of his groan when he stayed unmoving on the floor. The other pureblood heirs snickered, and Goyle’s face turned an unsightly red, near purple.

“Get off the floor, Goyle. Is this how your _pureblood_ parents teach you?” Tom mocked. “How unsightly.”

“N-no, my Lord.” Goyle scrambled to his feet, teeth grinding and hands clenched in fury and shame as he did not dare to look up. Tom only hummed, a tinge of schadenfreude in his tone.

He observed his followers, his _knights_ and suddenly he was reminded of a book he had read at Wool’s Orphanage. A king with his vassals, all of which followed the Knights Code of Chivalry: five moral rules for knights to live by. And Tom knew then, with hysterical laughter bubbling within him, that his knights would never be the true definition of knights, not as he wanted them to be.

“I’ve called upon you all here,” He paused here for dramatic effect, his followers straightening to attention, “because I am in need of information.”

“Information, my Lord?”

“Yes, Abraxas, do you doubt me?” Tom whipped his head to face Malfoy, piercing him with his stare.

Malfoy hastily retreated, hiding his face behind his long platinum hair. “No, my Lord, I do not dare.” A period of silence before he asked, “What is it that you wish for, my Lord?”

“I wish to know about the pureblood traditions of coming to age.”

The group of purebloods shoulders stiffened before relaxing, a minute thing, but enough for Tom to discern and cast suspicion. Lestrange laughed, a brash noise. “Why, my Lord, one would think you already know! After all, you’ve read all about our cul—”

“ _Crucio!_ ” And Lestrange fell from his chair, arching his back in intense pain, screams breaking the silence of the tense atmosphere. The other heirs bodily flinched away, eyes wide in shock.

“Do not _lie_ to me!” Tom snarled. “Do not attempt to _fool_ me!” Chest heaving, Tom sat back in his seat, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He breathed in a deep breath, calming himself before releasing Lestrange from his curse, a pleasant smile on his lips. “Please, do tell me your pureblood traditions. I would like to know.”

Lestrange struggled to pick himself off the floor, his body trembling from the curse. His ragged breathing the only sound in the stunned room. With great difficulty, Lestrange managed to crawl back into his chair, apologies tumbling from his chattering lips, pureblood etiquette and haughty air broken.

All his knights hesitated, looking uncertainly at one another, unease rising with the tension. Tom’s smile began to flicker, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his wand. “Do I,” he drawled, “have to ask again? Will you force your _Lord_ to repeat what he said?” Lazily, he flicked his wand, worthless red sparks sprouting from the tip, but enough to scare the heirs into submission.

Finally, Nott spoke up, “My Lord, do you possibly mean...the gift given to an heir when he comes of age?” Nott looked pensive as he spoke, his brows furrowed, eyes averted.

“Yes, I do, Thaddeus. I am asking about the...gift given to an heir when they come of age.” 

“How…. Pardon me for asking, my Lord, but how have you come upon this information? This is something not many know or are allowed to know.”

“Slughorn,” was all Tom said, and everyone breathed out a sigh of relief. Tom’s eye threatened to twitch, but he quashed it down. How dare his knights patronize him?

“So Slughorn was the one that introduced you, my Lord, to our tradition?” Black asked, and Tom dipped his head in acquiescent. “You’ve seen what the gift is, and understand how… _unconventional_ they are?” Another nod. “Then you must understand why we are so mindful about this information.”

“I am aware, and I have been barred from this information for years. Therefore I believe I warrant an explanation, a detailed one.”

“To be fair, my Lord, we are new to this as well.” Malfoy ventured, slow as if to pacify a beast. “My father told me of this tradition just three months ago.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, Malfoy did not seem to be lying, however. Yet it was still three months too long for Tom that his knight would know about this information. He leaned forward in his seat, attentive when Malfoy decided to expand on his words. 

“My father has explained to me that there are two main classes of gifts: mudbloods and muggles. He also told me that there is no definitive term or name for these ‘gifts,’ a protective measure so that anyone that does not know will be unaware of the happenings. 

“These gifts are seen as a status symbol, one of power and wealth.” Malfoy continued, “they are dressed and treated as toys, something for the pureblood head of house to use whenever he desires. They can also be a form of payment as well, when a head of house is indebted to another, financially or otherwise, the gifts are used. Even if the gift was originally yours, the head of house is allowed to lend or auction off their gifts to another when they no longer suit the head’s needs or desires.”

Tom raised a hand, effectively stopping Malfoy. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, the words on the very tip, rolling around like a putrid piece of meat. He forced it out though, lest he shows his followers his discomfort. “Why...was the tradition created in the first place?”

Nott was the one to answer, and Tom turned to look at him. “In one of the Nott family’s books, an ancestor of mine wrote that the tradition was created in order to create harmony. The differences between the Dark and Light were very stark, one was easily able to pick out a Dark wizard. They were violent and bloodthirsty, prone to lash out at the smallest things, and their appearance was unsightly as well as a result of practicing Black Magic on themselves.

“At the time of my ancestor’s writings, the Dark was being purged for their barbaric practices and were forced to hiding. The practice of using the gifts began during that time as well. They would become a substitute for the Dark wizards’ desires. Instead of lashing out on society, the wizards would use the gifts. Their wrath, their lust, their practice of Black Magic. 

“It was considered a beneficial exchange, the wizarding world would no longer have a population of uncontrollable beasts and the Dark Wizards would no longer be persecuted. As such, the heads of pureblood houses would give a gift to their heir, the child with the most of the family’s ancestral magic, at the transition age between childhood and adulthood. In hopes that the Pureblood family would continue to prosper in magic and would not be hunted as they once did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to pull out the plot chapters as much as I can, less of the word counts in the hundreds and more in the thousands.


End file.
